


Maybe Once She Was Brave Enough

by caik



Category: Chronicles of Narnia (Movies), Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Cutting, Depression, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 04:35:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3314171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caik/pseuds/caik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe once she was strong enough to bring them together, brave enough to keep hold of their hands, and wise enough forge a new life.</p><p> </p><p>Short drabble on the Pevensie's return after The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe Once She Was Brave Enough

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever "fic" - Let me know what you think! (I can also be reached at aluviion.tumblr.com)

     A laugh rises up, and for a moment she’s thrown back to earlier times. But no - its a broken sound, manic and grating as it rises. Lucy, her darling Lucy. At first she was herself. A comfort to them all as she slipped her small soft hand into theirs and smiled up at them like the world was okay. She believed they would return home to their kingdom, but as the days turned to months she buried herself deeper and deeper into her memories until the separation snapped. The divide between now and then turned out to be so brittle.  
Lucy dances wildly on the lawn below, a horrific parody of past memories. They once laughed endlessly together, danced with dryads, revelled with Bacchus, swam with river gods, loved beasts and men equally. Now its a frantic and crazed affair; she’s a puppet pulled by strings of denial and loss. She babbles to the trees, dirty hands jerking above her head as she plays out old memories, or perhaps creates new scenes. She can’t tell. She doesn’t come close enough to hear, though their mother’s soft sobs from the garden below somehow reach her easily enough.

     She can’t remember the last time she heard Edmund speak, but then its been weeks since she last visited. Watching him look away from her towards the window each time was too much. The slow and placid arc of his turn, the dead eyes. Strange to say, but she misses the red welts on his arms. The criss cross of anguish made visible on his porcelain skin. At least he felt something then, at least he spoke with her then. They would shout and she would plead, sharing their loss through conflict. Now his eyes eyes reflect nothing, absent windows into this husk of a brother. Oh Edmund, he had perfected the courtiers smile, revealing nothing to those around him and everything to his siblings. A small twitch at the corner of his mouth belaying his mirth, a barely moved eyebrow, his frustration, and such beautifully expressive eyes for those who knew to see it. He was a secret in broad daylight, shared between the four. And now she can hardly call him human.

     But its Peter who shatters her, breaks her anew every day. He was once radiant like the sun, golden haired and bright eyed. White teeth flashing as he threw back his head in laughter or in that mischievous grin before pulling a prank (to Edmund’s chagrin). The bruises from sword hilts and hooves simply highlighted his powerful vitality, complimented the ripple of muscles in his broad shoulders, spoke of a body well used and well loved. He truly was magnificent.  
Here, unhappiness has settled on him like ashes. Dulled his skin, weighted his bones. Birthed a sneer where she’s never seen one. The hollow in his cheeks makes her sick. It kills her to see that proud carriage broken, to see him pace like a caged animal. But the worst are his eyes. Stoney grey. When they met hers she could see a flash of pain that cut her before they dulled again. Now he won’t even look at her. Perhaps its better this way; remembering their perfect blue, the crinkle when he smiled, the warmth he shared through them so easily breaks her in a way she didn’t know she could be broken. The purple under his eyes and on his knuckles make their parents nervous. She can’t blame him for seeking those fights. Maybe it makes him feel alive again, for just a moment. Maybe there’s release in hurting another person. Maybe he’s just hoping to die.

     They are all alone now. Islands strewn across a wasteland. Maybe once she was strong enough to bring them together, brave enough to keep hold of their hands and forge a new life. Now she simply palms a small glass bottle, empty. And lays down for the last time.


End file.
